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I stuff my phone into my pocket and turn to leave, but she appears in front of me, blocking my path. She settles her hands on my arms, stilling me. Even though she can touch me, she never feels warm. It’s sad, really.

“You are beautiful, Bellamy. I hope you can believe it again someday soon.”

Oh.

Look at that, she can give me life advice after all.

I give her a watery smile, wishing we had met under better circumstances.

“Goodnight, Delphine. Don’t wait up,” I say, throat tightening.

“Au revoir, mon petit pêcheur. Be safe.”

I laugh as I shut the front door and jog down the stairwell, pushing the entry door open to find Séverin leaning on the wall outside.

Interesting that Delphine has suddenly gained the ability to speak French.

“You look nice,” I tell him, even though he always does. He cycles through chinos, shirts, and sweaters in natural, forest-y colors. Tonight is no different.

He pushes off the wall, sticking his hands in his pockets, looking at the floor. He mutters a thank you, but before I can ask him how far it is to the club, something slaps onto the ground beside me.

Our heads snap toward it in unison.

My ID. My driver’s license. I started learning a year ago, but my ex-husband didn’t like the thought of me having independence and made it difficult for me to take my test.

Plus, I shake like a leaf every time I’m in a car, which doesn’t exactly help.

I look up to find Séverin staring at the open window, knowing that a certain redheaded woman is probably wiggling her fingers at him.

“You can stop pretending you don’t see her, by the way,” I muse.

His alarmed face turns back to mine.

“I don’t—I—” he stutters, but I put my hand up to stop him.

“Are we really going to pretend that I don’t know you’re a vampire, and you don’t sense that I’m different?” I mean it kindly, but he looks mortified—frozen in place, his habitual breathing grinding to a halt.

“Are you at least feeding okay?” I ask him. There was a brood of vampires where I previously lived, but they were nightwalkers and mostly kept to themselves. Séverin must be a daywalker, for obvious reasons, although he seems to struggle on warmer days.

His jaw works before he swallows hard. “I manage.”

That’s all I get out of him before he storms off in what I assume is the direction of the club. I scoop my ID off the ground and scuttle along after him.

I’m not sure which is louder: the music filtering out from the club or the ear-splitting scream Lara throws in our direction when she sees us. She makes a circular motion with her hand over my outfit, which I take as a compliment.

“You are so goddamned delicious,” she squeals, grabbing me and shaking me like a rag doll, which does nothing for my roiling stomach.

We line up to get scrutinized and stamped by security, then we’re moving through the velvet curtains and into the club.

The room is hazy from smoke machines, red lights casting a dark, sultry glow. Music shakes the air, guitar riffs rattling my rib cage as we move through the crowd toward the booth reserved for us. Apparently, Sunday used to date the woman who owned the club, and for some reason the thought alone sours my stomach further.

It’s not any business of mine what he does. Who he does.

The club is already busy, but we eventually manage to reach the booth, which is more like a sunken pit. A gaping maw inlaid with red velour seating in a semi-circle, with a glossy black table in the center. There are a few people I don’t recognize dotted around the table, and one that makes my breath catch.

He’s not looking at us, too busy leaning over and speaking into someone’s ear, exposing his exquisite side profile. Sharp jawline dusted with end-of-week stubble, perfectly straight nose (despite the battering I gave it), raven-black hair styled to look messy, yet purposeful.

The throbbing lights catch on his eyebrow piercing as he turns to us.